Years of the Plague
by tristificaltris
Summary: In the years following the war, a virulent plague decimates the population of the Wizarding and Muggle worlds alike. The survivors are left to pick up the pieces of what's left of both worlds, and ready themselves for what's next.
1. Among the Dead

**AUTHOR'S NOTE**

-I am not J.K. Rowling. I do not own Harry Potter & co.

-This is not happy reading. I mean, this is apocalyptic shit. Death and dying and decaying corpses will happen.

-This is 'plotting as I go' so I haven't decided what is going to happen yet.

-Anyone might die or already be dead or - y'know - survive, mutate, and become a rampaging monster.

-Relationships may not stick to canon. In fact they probably won't.

-If you don't like characters to be queer, feel free to read something else.

_-Tristifical Tris_**  
**

**On Wizards, Muggles, and Magic  
**_  
_

Despite all pretenses there was no 'Wizarding world' and 'Muggle world'. Wizards were born to Muggles and Muggles were born to wizards. Although they refused to call their children without power Muggles, it was denial of a truth. There was no difference except that _these_ Muggles were family, or more importantly, a denial of a greater truth: _There are no Wizards, there are no Muggles, there are only humans with varying levels of magical potential and access to magical education.  
_

There was no difference between Muggles and Wizards except the ability to use magic. Or perhaps to be more precise, enough of the ability to matter. There were still 'Muggles' with trace amounts that were passed over, not enough to cause a stir among non-magic folk, too difficult for Wizards to trace. Not enough to make the effort of finding, training, and schooling them. Without a wand they would likely never find out about magic or their power.

Children born to wizards with equal amounts of power to these 'Muggle' children were not quite Squibs, but near enough. Barely enough magic to equal a first or second year student despite any amount of training. Yet - they often still got the opportunity these days, unlike their counterparts born to Muggles. To live in the secret world of magic. And of course there were the Squibs, the Muggles that lived among Witches and Wizards.

These were things Not To Be Discussed.

Just because you ignore something doesn't mean it doesn't exist.

Imagine if they learned of their power, weak as it might be, and applied it - too weak to be traced, weaker than the youngest Wizarding child. Without knowing what they were truly doing, just that things sometimes happened when they really really wanted it to, and knowledge of precisely what they wanted. Imagine that they learned about Witches and Wizards and that they'd been passed over, ignored, forgotten. Slighted._  
_

_And what they really, really wanted, was to make an incredibly virulent bio-weapon.  
_

**Among the Dead**

The night was darker than she remembered it being. There was always some light in the distance, caught in the atmosphere, reflected. Light pollution they called it. You had to get very far away to find a truly dark night, and even then a plane might come through the night sky. There would be no planes now, and there were no lights in the distance. A quiet had descended on the world and a return true darkness to the night broken only by the moon and the stars.

And a softly spoken 'Lumos.'

Hermione Granger looked ragged and worn at the edges. The young witch had aged dramatically in the past several months. There were lines that didn't belong on such a youthful face, from grief deeper than any she'd faced during the war. She'd thought life would be easier. Safer. It had been, for a time.

They had moved on, and rebuilt their lives, only for... what?

Leaves crunched beneath her feet, too loudly for her liking, but anyone who might hear her was long dead. Before they'd realized how badly contagious it was, before they'd discovered the cause or a cure, wizards had rushed to St Mungos. None of them, none of Healers had lived, and none of their patients. After that, the panic had only gotten worse...

It was all over now, though. It was quiet, and dark, and nothing stirred at her arrival.

Hermione looked at the abandoned building with lingering apprehension. No one had remained to clear it of corpses of course. It was something she had gotten somewhat used to, but this place would have been full to bursting. The conditions would have been horrible by the end, patients and Healers dying together with no one left to tend them. The dying trapped with the dead, with no where to go, nothing to ease their suffering.

It had been just as bad for Muggles, in their hospitals, the last she'd heard from her parents. They'd hoped to the last - she couldn't go on thinking they'd lived after communications cut out - that magic could save them. That she'd find a way to save them. She was supposed to be so bloody smart. Maybe she would have eventually found something. In time. Time that she hadn't had... no. They hadn't had the time for her to save them. She had all the time in the world now there was no one to save.

The grief she held was thick with guilt, and the uncertainty. Not knowing who lived or who died, whether it was safe to seek out other survivors yet. She'd suspected early on that the owls carried and spread the sickness, so any that came near her felt to the ground with a stunner with no care whether the fall might be too great. It hurt each time, but if she'd survived by chance of not being exposed to the pathogen and not being immune she couldn't risk exposure.

She'd never seen them carrying a letter. They were just former companions of witches and wizards, desperately alone as she was. Even if they were carrying a message for her she couldn't risk approaching the fallen birds to find out.

Yet here she was, walking into a contaminated site, and hoping that her precautions would be enough. As if other people wouldn't have thought of using a bubble head charm to protect themselves from infection. Perhaps they didn't, perhaps they did. Perhaps she had already been contaminated and it was only a matter of time until she, too, died. Perhaps she wanted to, rather than live alone and in fear.

She had been right about one thing. St Mungo's was full of the dead. Corpses were crammed in together so thickly she had a difficult time making her way inside. She wouldn't have been able to breathe the air if she hadn't anticipated this and practiced that charm. As it was she stepped on several bodies as she progressed, and they made rather unpleasant noises as her boots sunk through the rotting flesh. She wondered if s_courgify_ would be enough to decontaminate what she wore into this place. She wouldn't take the chance. She never wanted to wear them again after this.

It was a good thing that she had a stronger stomach than the little girl who had climbed aboard the Hogwarts Express such a long time ago. Even the young woman she'd grown into, shaped by conflict, would have lost her stomach at the journey through the halls of St Mungo's. Now she merely grimaced within the confines of the bubble of fresh air that floated about her face. She couldn't smell the rotten stench that must have sunken into the stones of the building, but she could imagine it quite well. It wasn't a scent easily forgotten.

She traveled through the building with a sense of horror outmatched only by her growing determination as she searched. She tried not to look at the faces of the fallen as that would distract her from her task. If they had learned anything here, she would discover it. Any progress they had made on their research would be saved from this place. She would gather whatever medical supplies she could find. And then this place would be destroyed.

This was not the first place she had visited for such reasons. Gathering supplies, destroying contaminated sites, and moving on.

If she was the only survivor she would be well supplied. If she was not, she had stockpiled enough for a small settlement to get started. They didn't have to be magic either. She just wanted to see other people, hear them talk...

She paused sorting through papers, mid thought. She'd heard something. An animal loose, it had to be, scavenging. No one would come in here. No one except her. The thought made her grimace. There could easily be other survivors with the same ideas as she.

"Is someone there?" she called out.

Ringing silence.

The silence before had been different. There had been little noises she hadn't really noticed but now- nothing.

She shifted from foot to foot uneasily. She wanted to finish her task and get out quickly, and instead of sorting through everything she just shoved everything into her charmed bag without really looking. It was time to go. A noise in the hallway made her reach for her wand. She fought the urge to call out again. Whatever it was it she might not want it to find her.

A limping figure came into the light.

She dropped the bag, aimed her wand, and opened her mouth to cast-

_"Hermione Granger?"_

Her mouth remained open, her wand still pointed at the figure.

Living.

Human.

For a moment she didn't recognize him. Grimy, too thin, hair a total mess. Her first impression had been something from the scary movies she'd watched as a child. Her mouth shut with a click of her teeth. Teeth this young man had once caused to grow to enormous size. He had been detested, hated, and even pitied. Now...

"Draco Malfoy," she replied as evenly as she could manage. She tried to stifle the first thought- if it could have been anyone, why did it have to be him? Anyone else, anyone... and then she felt guilt. Even he hadn't deserved that. He might be unpleasant and bigoted but he didn't deserve to die like that. She smiled, and it wasn't even all that forced. "You have no idea how glad I am to see you alive."

_Even you._

The blond wizard was still staring at her from the doorway of the room. Shock, probably. She hadn't seen anyone else, no reason to think he had either. And he was in far worse shape than she. Too used to being taken care of, she guessed. She picked up her bag and returned to her work, ignoring the wide eyed stare.

Eventually some sense must have returned to him, because he demanded, "What are you _doing_?"

His voice was sharp, hoarse with disuse, but there was some remnant of his old arrogant self she remembered from her childhood.

"Searching for supplies. Its no use to anyone here, and this place is a breeding ground for pestilence," she began to tell him, and then lost her train of thought entirely as she noticed something. Something important. He wasn't visibly charmed against contamination. He hadn't protected himself. "Why- why aren't you- you-" she spluttered, unable to finish the thought. Even Malfoy - no, especially Malfoy would have thought of protecting himself from sickness.

"What are you trying to say?" Malfoy asked almost primly. It seemed her own lack of composure had helped him regain his own somehow. "Have you lost your ability to speak coherently since civilization has fallen to this sickness? It has been months, Granger, not years..."

"Why are you not protecting yourself?!" Hermione finally screamed. There was more than a hint of despair in her voice that surprised both of them, as well as some anger. Finally she'd found someone and he was going to die and she still hadn't found out a cure. He was going to die like everyone else. That it was Malfoy didn't even factor into it.

"Perhaps you haven't considered I do not need to," Malfoy said softly, looking at her with unreadable eyes. His sharp, pointed face was inscrutable. Whatever had happened to him in the past months had changed him as much as it had changed her. "I won't be dying of this, at least."

"You won't... how do you know?" The witch, who had been holding it together for so long, was nearly weeping. Over this boy she'd never liked, and likely never would even if he did live. There had just been too much death.

"I already sickened of it. I recovered quickly. I understand that was not the case for many," he said smoothly. His voice didn't match his appearance. "Now, I asked what you are doing. I understand you are distressed, but answer my question."

She stared at him for several moments before she began to answer. She warily did not tell him just how much she'd had stockpiled, implying that this was the first excursion she'd taken to gather supplies. Even if he was the only other survivor, that didn't mean she trusted him. He was a Malfoy after all. They looked out for themselves first and foremost and to him she was just a Mudblood. She wasn't going to forget that. She went on until she was nearly out of breath.

"Places like this - where there's too many dead to clear - need to be destroyed. We can't risk this place becoming a breeding ground for sickness and death," she finished. He had returned to staring at her. Maybe she'd said too much.

"I hadn't thought... I survived that sickness, but there are so many dead bodies..." Malfoy looked paler than ever beneath the grime. He looked like he was going to be sick. Hopefully it was just queasiness and not that he had actually fallen ill. Hermione hesitated, about to reach out to him. Malfoy grimaced. "Well. Too late to worry about that I suppose. Have you gathered everything you needed here?"

"I... yes," Hermione decided. She'd gone through most of the building. And getting him out as quickly as possible was the most important thing now. She grabbed her bag, and went to him. "I don't care to walk through that..." she gestured toward the doorway. "Again. I don't plan on walking back either, and you don't know the place, so I'm going to have to Apparate the both of us."

Malfoy held out his arm for her to take. If he did not entirely trust her, he was at least confident in her skills as a witch. There were not many she would trust to Side-Along Apparate her without splinching. Maybe he just wanted to get out of this place as badly as she did.


	2. The Cost of Survival

**The Cost of Survival**

Granger hadn't noticed yet.

It was less than a day since she'd Apparated them to her little sanctuary. She was intelligent, he couldn't deny that. She would find out soon enough - she had to be suspicious as it was. It would be better if he told her himself. Probably. He just couldn't get the words out. They stuck in his throat. His hands clutched at his robes, knuckles white. His mind still ran in circles trying to deny the truth.

Draco had survived the illness that had cost so many other lives. He'd survived. He ought to be thankful for that but he couldn't bear to think of what his life would be like now.

She was making lunch. He just sat at the table, watching her through slightly narrowed eyes. He didn't quite understand why she was doing it by hand. That wasn't the only reason he watched though. He watched as if he had to mesmerize every step she took. Every once in a while she glanced over at him with an odd expression, but that didn't deter him.

"Well, what is it?" she asked about halfway through cooking their meal. She hadn't asked him to help, which was something of a relief. He didn't have the faintest idea how to cook after all.

"There is a matter we should-" Draco began, before pausing and frowning and correcting himself. This had to be succinct or he wouldn't be able to finish. It didn't help, the feeling that speaking of it would make it real. It was real. "I should mention. After I recovered, I discovered I could no longer use magic. It made - a squib of me."

There. He said it. All those years of mocking her heritage and now he was barely more than a Muggle with exceptionally good breeding.

She stared at him, unable to speak. It made him want to squirm. Of course he didn't, but her expression made him want to disappear. There was something that had to be sympathy but more than that - interest. Curiosity. She'd taken an academic interest in his loss of magic. That had to be it.

"Sorry," she said after a moment, remembering what manners she had, and returning her attention to the food. He hoped it hadn't suffered her lack of attention. It had been far too long since he had a decent meal. Malfoys weren't meant to scrounge for food.

It wasn't much, but if it had been the other way around, what sympathy would he have shown her? Not a single comment on how ironic that he was suddenly powerless while she was still a witch? No, she wasn't cruel. She was making him lunch and from the expression, thinking furiously on his problem.

As if it were something-

That she could solve.

* * *

There was only so much you could cry before you felt exhausted, dry, and hollowed out that it seemed like a strong wind might blow you away.

There was only so much grieving you could handle before it changes.

So many had died.

The first had been Molly and Arthur, within days of each other. It was a blessing in a way. They didn't have to watch any more of their children die. The Weasleys had pulled together in the end, taking care of each other, grieving together, and desperately fighting to survive.

Harry didn't get sick. Not even a sniffle. He made them as comfortable as he could, cooked, cleaned, and tried his best. It wasn't good enough. Not for Percy, not for Bill, not for Charlie, and not... not for Ron. Ron had succumbed to the sickness, with his brothers dying around him, and Harry hopelessly fighting to care for them all. He had been lying in bed feverish and sweaty in the bedroom he'd grown up in, still plastered with old Chudley Cannons posters. Just like he'd left it.

Ron fought longest and hardest. He wanted to see Hermione again. Harry didn't mention that she might be dead or dying. That would be cruel. Promising to look for their friend and look out for her was the last thing he'd said to his first and best friend. Weeping just didn't seem like enough, and there was still Ginny and George to look after. The children, somehow they recovered faster than the rest. They remained hushed, faces drawn and miserable. Fleur and Angelina survived, but Audrey, Percy's wife, had succumbed nearly as quickly as he had.

And around the Weasley's, Wizarding Britain was decimated. Their deaths were tragic, but they fared better than most. He'd taken his broom to get an idea of how bad things were, when the survivors had recovered enough he could leave them for some time. After he'd buried their dead.

It was nightmarish out there.

There were dead bodies everywhere.

The first day he hadn't found anyone living. The second he began to doubt he would.

The third he'd found a lost child. He was pretty sure she was a Muggle but she was alone. An orphan. He returned with her in his arms. They had a lot of children, but there was always a lot of children at the Burrow. If they ran out of room, they could make it bigger. It wouldn't be the first time they'd built additions.

The fourth he began to burn the bodies he found, and brought back food. What they'd had was gone.

The fifth they'd discovered that the adults could no longer perform any spells. There was no way to tell if the children had lost their ability as they were still too young.

The sixth day, he'd had to restrain Fleur from jumping from a window on the top floor. After that Ginny was always at her side. He was thankful that she had been drawn out of her own grief enough to care for the other woman. She needed it and he couldn't do everything, be everywhere.

After that the days began to blur past the point he couldn't remember what happened when. They'd found more survivors, but most were very young. Few were older than eleven. He couldn't help but think that their survival meant something. They were somehow spared, the children were spared. But it was a plague, unthinking and merciless. Perhaps it had been Death himself.

Harry worked like a man possessed, feverishly. As others slowly recovered, he worked tirelessly to make sure they had enough. Among former wizards he heard whispers of his former title. The Boy Who Lived. Yet again he escaped death while everyone fell around him fell.

He wouldn't lose any more.

Wizards and Muggles alike, they followed his lead. He saved them, brought them together, and worked magic. Of them all, only he still possessed the magic that had once divided humanity. There were no whispers regarding that yet. No suspicions pointing his way. He was sure they would come in time.

A camp had gone up in the fields outside the Burrow. The town nearby was being cleansed for use by the survivors. He had traveled a days ride from the Burrow in all directions, but no further. He did not want to leave for more than a day at a time without checking in. In case... something happened. It was years ago, and this was nothing like the war, but he couldn't help thinking they were under attack. Otherwise this horror had no cause, no reason, and that made it worse somehow. If there was nothing to fight, what could he do?


	3. The Future May Hold

_A/N-_ _I'm sorry about the slow updates for this fic. I don't remember what my initial plans for this story were, tbh, but I have some new ideas thanks to a night of sleep deprivation. I don't know what that means for the future of our heroes.  
_

**The Future May Hold**

Weeks went by and the survivors at the Burrow slowly recovered. After the town had been cleared many of them had set themselves up there, and the camp around the Weasley home was dismantled. The utilities of course weren't working, but there was a deep well and some of the homes were equipped with wood burning stoves. It was something. They were making things work.

Harry watched the activity in town from a distance. More people had joined them in the past few weeks, finding their way on their own somehow. Perhaps they'd seen him flying overhead. Very little of the bustle of the town was on his orders, and he found that he liked that. He didn't have to tell them what to do every day, he didn't want to have to tell them.

A quiet young woman made dinner for the whole town in a massive cauldron each night, with the help of a few of the children.

Kids were everywhere, running errands and feeling important, playing halfheartedly, or just watching everyone else. The older kids looked after the younger ones. They had to - there were just too many children for the adults to watch them all, and the adults not busy working on something were too messed up over the past weeks to be much use with kids. There were exceptions, like that resilient young woman with the cauldron of stew. It didn't need constant attention, but kids thrived on attention. Even as he watched, she was calling over some of the children who were just watching the others play.

There was a flurry of activity among the buildings. Things that were currently useless were being hauled into a house no one claimed, clearing living space of dark televisions and other electric appliances. Someone might be able to salvage something from the parts eventually. If not, well, they were out of the way.

Another house was being used to store all the consumables he'd brought in, as well as what was found in the houses no one was using. During those first days, he'd turned the entire basement into a freezer... with an exception of the staircase, which really didn't need to get icey. The rest of the house was kept cool and dry with another spell, and - hopefully they would be well stocked against winter.

Someone had some real foresight and had taken to chopping firewood, though they would need a lot more than what one man could split. He might have to go help out while there was still daylight, but he wanted to remain at a distance from everything for a while longer.

It meant something, all this. They would not disappear into the night. What would become of them, Harry still didn't know, but they had a chance. They might even make it through the coming winter. And he didn't even have to do all the work. That was slowly sinking in. Even though he was the only one with the full use of his magic, they were slowly getting on their feet and working with what they had. Whether they were Witches and Wizards without their magic or Muggles without their tech to rely on, they were on the same level now.

The man splitting wood with his axe was joined by an older woman with a chainsaw. Gas powered. He made a note to keep an eye for - no. They had cars, and the cars had gas, and they could search for useful gas powered tools. Anyway, he hadn't really had much to do with Muggle things since he'd left Privet Drive. They'd know what they'd need more than he.

It was strange even though he'd brought them all together, they didn't seem to expect anything of him. At first they followed his lead because he was healthy and confident. To most of them, he was just another young man. He could do strange things, yes, but he was still a kid to them. Not the savior of the wizarding world, the Boy Who Lived. And as for the former Witches and Wizards... they were under the care of the Muggles, learning simple tasks they'd never really had to perform. They were too busy adjusting to have anything to do with him.

He'd really expected everyone to look to him for some reason. Maybe he needed it. Without the pressure to _make everything be okay_, what happened had started to sink in. Really sink in. Not only the complete uncertainty of what the future held. That itself could be a distraction to hold him for hours. No, it was the losses worse than any war.

Harry really missed Hermione and Ron. He wanted to believe Hermione at least was alive, but it was a painful hope. A painful not-knowing, and he couldn't decide whether that was worse than knowing for certain he'd never seen Ron again. He hadn't let himself really accept what had happened, knowing the reality of the situation would knock him off his feet. Now, though... he could mourn, while no one needed him.

The Weasleys had been his family, and they were gone. All except Ginny and George, and that brought another pang. As much as it hurt him, it was even worse for them. He didn't think George would ever laugh again, and Ginny... he was just glad that she had Fleur to look after. It kept them both occupied, and it gave Ginny a sense of purpose. Someone to care for. He thought that he might have felt put out over this development before all this started, but for some reason Harry only felt relieved. He really did care for her. Just, she felt so much more intensely than he did. It made him feel guilty.

He was getting a lot of that now. He hadn't even gotten sick. He still had his magic. He was just fine, except for seeing everyone he cared about dying around him. It made him wonder why he'd been spared again. He wasn't afraid of death. Only letting others die.

Harry mentally shook himself as his thoughts went down a well trod path, and took the path down to the town. There was still plenty of firewood they'd need for winter, and one thing he had to do while swinging an axe was focus on the task at hand. No use dwelling on things he couldn't change. The past was gone. Maybe something would be found to take its place. Until then they had to survive the winter.

* * *

Living with Granger wasn't as bad as he'd thought it would be. She was polite. She helped him with things he needed help with, without a hint of mockery. She gave him his space, but she wasn't too distant. She seemed willing to put the past behind them entirely. And she was the one who thought of it. His salvation. Of sorts.

It came a day ago, several weeks after she'd brought him home like some stray cat.

Granger had either recalled his skill in the subject of Potions, or merely thought of it by chance, but he could have kissed her for bringing it up. Could have. He certainly would not have, even if she was not a M- of Muggle descent. It was brilliant of her for suggesting it though. She'd given him use of her potions supplies and he'd gone to work. He spent most of the night going through an old potions book, trying different potions on whim. As he worked, something returned. Hope. Some potions reacted oddly, but most of them came together beautifully.

It brought Draco to tears. Magic wasn't entirely lost to him.

He didn't even care that she happened by while he was in the midst of sobbing over that revelation. No, he cared. He cared because she rushed to his side immediately and hugged him, shushed him, thinking that it hadn't worked after all. She apologized for getting his hopes up. And, tears still streaming down his face, he started laughing a little hysterically. And then he started hiccuping. It took a while to get it under control, to explain that it was all alright really, and that he could brew Potions just fine.

Perhaps he wouldn't have what he once had, but he'd have something, and he would make it enough. It was enough. It was, it was more than nothing. Much more than nothing. He loved potions. It was one of the things he'd excelled at. As for the other things... well, he could hope.

Magic wasn't lost to him.

Of course, after his emotional outburst was over, he withdrew and cleaned up and pretended he hadn't been a complete mess over it. The smile he shared with her was genuine, though. One she probably hadn't seen in the time they'd known each other. Maybe they could be friends after all. He could scarcely dislike her after this, could he?

Later, the next day, it was his turn to turn things upside down.

"Hermione, I was wondering..." the blonde began, glancing at the witch's wand as she poured glasses for them both. Milk, to go with the cookies he'd helped her bake. She sat opposite from him. Draco smiled and continued. "I understand what you said about owls, I suppose, but I was wondering. What about a Patronus?"

The bright young woman stared at him, not entirely realizing she'd stood up or that her chair had fallen to the ground. He stared back and tried not to feel like she was seeing through his skin. It wasn't that ridiculous of a question. He fully expected from her expression, some kind of 'Of course, that was the first thing I tried'. Not her sudden self-recriminations.

"I can't believe I hadn't thought of that!" she exclaimed, abashed. "We used them so often..." In the war. He could almost hear the words that never left her lips. There was still that, then. Moments later she was sending her otter out to find her friends.

"Please, sit back down," he asked her, when it seemed she'd stand there quivering until it returned. "You were going to help me eat these, weren't you?" He watched her pick up the chair, and ease herself into it. Her hands were shaking, but that stopped after her second cookie. "You don't have to think of everything, you know. They could cast the charm too, couldn't they?"

She slowly nodded, but that didn't seem to be enough. It actually seemed to make her worry more. He even realized why she might. If they hadn't, it might mean they couldn't. Or that there was no one to cast it. "It could have slipped their minds, like it did yours. They might-" he paused, then plowed on "-they might have reacted to the illness like I have. It doesn't mean anything. Have another cookie."

The otter flashed back into the kitchen hours later, when they were having dinner. It had been a solemn affair, until the silvery creature reappeared followed by a stag. And only a stag. Potter's Patronus, then. He couldn't for the life of him remember Weasley's, or if he had one.

"Like I said, he might have been taken like I was," he tried again, but there were tears in her eyes. "... and if its the worst, you haven't lost them both." The tears were falling faster and they were already out of cookies. He wished desperately that it wasn't just Potter's Patronus in the kitchen, because he was sure its owner would have better luck. He had no idea how to handle crying. "I'm sorry..."


End file.
